


Never Let Me Go

by LadyVader



Category: Merlin BBC
Genre: Angst, Episode: s05e13 The Diamond of the Day, Fix-It, Future Fic, Gen, Headcanon, M/M, Pre-Slash, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 19:07:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyVader/pseuds/LadyVader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set post season 5 finale, Merlin has walked the world for a long time waiting for his friends return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Let Me Go

**Author's Note:**

> I've not written in months, been horribly, HORRIBLY blocked in fact lol but I needed a headcanon and I needed it FAST. So I hope this helps others as it helped me and if not, well then I just hope you enjoy it anyway ;)
> 
> Warnings: angst, pining, loneliness, angst, angst, etc lol basically its choc full of spoilers for Merlin S5 ep13 (The Diamond of the Day, Pt 2) so if you've not seen it yet, don't read this.
> 
> Disclaimer: Merlin, Arthur Pendragon and pretty much EVERYONE mentioned in no way belong to me, I just borrow other peoples toys to play with them but I promise I always give them back ;)
> 
> Dedication: For Cheryl ([](http://dysonrules.livejournal.com/profile)[ **dysonrules**](http://dysonrules.livejournal.com/) ) who made me watch the damn show in the first place *fistshake* and for Amy ([](http://takola.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://takola.livejournal.com/) **takola** ) who not only convinced me to post but also did a KICKASS speed-beta job for me when she caught me fucking things up ;)

 

~

He finds them all again, in time.

The first few hundred years are bleak and solitary but looking back he had been oddly glad of it, left to staunch his bleeding wounds in peace without the fresh hurt of remembered warmth and happiness to keep bogging him down.

He finds Gaius first, led by an inexplicable urge to leave the cave in which he’d confined himself to wander aimlessly toward civilisation or rather the cluster of small villages that had sprung up between the mountains a good month’s walk away. Two days into trading with the physician and townsfolk he had been staggered to discover that the gangly, sombre faced youth running back and forth at his master’s whim had been none other than his old master and beloved friend.

He ran from Gaius at that time (he’d answered to a different name but _god_ those eyes, that same cynical brow lift were agony, _agony_ ) he hadn’t known Merlin – not old, not young, not at _all_ – and Merlin couldn’t bear to have him so close and yet still so utterly lost to him.

It wasn’t until many years had passed that he’d returned to the same village, desperate for news of his old friend; keen for knowledge of his marriage, his children, his any conceivable happiness no matter how painful the lack of connection, only to find an old bachelor still set in his ways, white haired and appearing almost as ancient as Merlin knew himself to be. He’d lived a further five months after Merlin’s visit and Merlin had spent each day at his side because, by then, Gaius _remembered_.

It had been _horrifically_ painful to lose him again after so long alone.

Gaius had known nothing more than snatches of dreams and the certainty of a destiny he had helped shape once, long ago. He could tell Merlin nothing of how he came to be himself again, knowing only that nothing in his, actually quite fulfilling, small village existence had ever felt as real to him as the memory and belief he still held that his boy Merlin was out there, waiting.

In time (lots of it, a ridiculous torrent of unbearable endless years with no one and nothing, _nothing_ to lessen the ache) he’d realised that it was foolish to have believed that in finding Gaius he had, in some way, opened the door to let his other friends - and _him_ , always, always waiting and hoping for _him -_ through to re-establish themselves, ready to set the world to rights, to take their places back at his side. So he’d made his way across that vast, _hated_ lake to the island to sit, to await the next return.

He sat so long and so still, so in tune with the thrum and pulse of magic all around him, that magic built up and through him as he bound himself to the earth and _listened_ ; his heart slowing as it matched the sway and song of the earth, his body silent as it attuned itself to the rhythm of all around it, heart splintering as hundreds of years passed by and not a single soul reached out for his.

He might have stayed there, as still and solemn as a tree, solid with Ivy and stiff with misery and the build-up of time and neglect upon his ancient skin. However, the only thing more painful than the universe’s disinclination to gift him with the presence of long missed loved ones, was a dreadful, clawing absence of Arthur – here, where he _should_ be, where long ago Merlin had returned to draw the boat ashore, to lay his _King_ to rest, only to find the merest echo of his presence carved into the fabric of reality and time - as though once he had drawn near, the island had simply reached out and _taken_ him, passing him on to unknown lands where Merlin could not follow nor reach to call him back. So, bitter and cold with only the distant promise of the last great Dragon to keep him moving, sluggish and heavy with age, he had forced himself up and back off the island, never straying closer than its distant opposing shore for a hundred years or more, until he could be sure he had shaken off the urge to wait his years out as a hawthorne tree.

It took another three hundred years but Merlin found himself experiencing the pull one day almost exactly as footsteps fell in time with his while he was gathering herbs. His beard was long and white again by then, Merlin having become sick of the attention his lingering youth repeatedly garnered him, when abruptly a pair of steady, strong hands had reached out to cup his elbow as Merlin had straightened with an arm full of curative flora, to find warm brown eyes regarding him in concern.

Even with no memory (none at all that time round) Lancelot couldn’t help but take care of Merlin.

He had allowed Lancelot to escort him to the village he had been aiding during the insidious chill of winter, keeping epidemics and outbreaks at bay, unable to stay within his cave when he knew he could be helping people ( _Arthur_ ’s people, even if they didn’t know it). He let him lead their conversation, tallying up details as it became clear that, once again, he was unknown to a dear and mourned for friend but it would take several more cycles for Lancelot to recall enough to find himself oddly bound to Merlin, loyal without question and as always, simply too noble for his own good.

When Merlin had returned after that first winter, ready to brave Lancelot’s lack of memory, it had been to the past news and horror of a fire, a bad one, and the deaths of people trapped within the building. It shouldn’t have been a surprise to hear that Lancelot had perished during a rescue attempt but somehow it still had the power to strike misery into Merlin’s very core.

He ignored the next two twitches, deep in his belly, whispering in his dreams, right up until he started to hear their voices clearly and he realised then that the patterns forming couldn’t be denied - that each time the heartache and hope twanged deep within him, that _more_ of them were breaking back through the veil and if he focused, he could _feel_ them.

He found Gaius once more, simply by focusing on the satisfaction he felt when he handled herbs, following the bone-deep, learned love of a job well done until he found him, a healer again, as though Gaius couldn’t sit idly by no matter how many times he passed from one life into the next.

That time he had known Merlin on sight, as a figure from his dreams, as a fragment of a thought he’d felt slip through his fingers one too many times, only solidifying then as Merlin stood before him.

Merlin had had twenty years that time, the first of many because no matter how many times Gaius’ soul might have called to his, no matter how it hurt to always lose him in time, Merlin would never again be able to ignore it, not knowing who it was he’d have missed.

He’d stumbled across Percival within Gaius’ lifespan during that twenty year cycle, and then Lancelot once more as Percival crossed over again. It was then that Merlin had realised that he would _always_ find his friends because the life that had drawn them together, the fate and the belief that had powered them _all_ on their journey, was still that force that drove Merlin onward.

He knew then that he wouldn’t be able to quit this unending existence of his until he had once again stood in the presence of his destiny. It seemed that, until that time when both he and Arthur achieved their eventual, eternal rest, the same destiny bound all of them as surely as they had all once locked eyes across that precious table of Arthur’s long before, and so they would resurface again and again, until fate no longer had need of them.

Even though Merlin knew that they were all inextricably bound to the same path he’d forged for them, each step one step closer to the day of Arthur’s return, it was hard to face them all, soul-bound and certain of their individual destinies each time they surfaced and, as the centuries mounted, it would have been a lie to say that Merlin always forgave them their clean slates and momentary happiness.

Gaius almost always recalled Merlin to some extent by adulthood (a likely benefit of his still possessing some minor magical spark within him) but it was _hard_ to face his friends again and again without the balm of their relationship to ease the sting of lost memories each time.

Morgana was the worst.

With no idea what she’d done, she was at best a smug, strong willed powerhouse of a woman, at worst a self destructive lunatic but each time they crossed each other’s path, Merlin felt a flicker of pure terror and grief flowing from her straight toward him, both sickening and saddening him all at once.

As the years went on he often found Morgana occupying a similar cycle to Gwen’s. Gwen was almost always a mother (to Merlin’s guilt-stricken horror), Lancelot’s own cycle blending seamlessly to move in time with hers, Morgana a cruel, sometimes sad moon orbiting the easy warmth of their lives. In time Merlin was able to forgive her _somewhat_ for her resolve to scrub Arthur from her universe if only because Morgana’s own losses became more startlingly clear with every return to a world that tortured her for crimes she didn’t recall committing.

She never appeared to remember him but Merlin knew she did - heard her from clear across the world when she woke screaming _EMRYS_ and sobbed her grief, terror and rage into the night. It was an unpleasant responsibility but Merlin readied himself each time she re-entered the world, just in case _this_ would be the time in which he might need to kill her again.

Mordred knew him on sight and, to Merlin’s horror, had immediately thrown himself off a cliff - too consumed by his own guilt and grief to listen. Merlin had to wait for his next incarnation to be old enough to listen, captivated and still far too solemn for a child, as he told their stories; of Camelot, of Arthur and of how Emrys couldn’t ever truly blame Mordred because it had been his destiny to strike the blow, planting the story deep so that it might stand a chance of reaching him when the memories resurfaced.

Gwaine _never_ remembered him, something that seemed as though it should hurt desperately, _deeply_ in fact, but instead it was somehow a relief. Merlin would cast aside his aged appearance within moments of seeing that easy smile and simply _relish_ Gwaine, always so ridiculously and perfectly _himself_ that Merlin often wondered what point there could be in recycling just such a devoted and daring clod, only to miss him horribly each time he left the world.

It was for Gwaine, in fact, that Merlin went to War. He had resolved to not interfere in the ways of mortal man until such time as it became obvious that Albion stood in dire need of its one true King, but found himself unable to stand by and let his friends die no matter the cause. More of them had come together then, clustering at the edges of Merlin’s non-reality over and over until he could almost pinpoint them all to just one time, one place on the wide entirety of the world.

A clear thousand years rolled by with almost no periods of that first crushing loneliness that had threatened to plague Merlin for all time. He had fought at Gwaine’s side, had tended Lancelot’s crops, and for a while he’d even allowed himself stay close by, acting as town physician when he had had the decided (if bittersweet) joy of finding Lancelot, Gwen, Elyan and Leon all living in the same locality, only leaving when the pain of his losses outweighed the warmth of watching them all blossom and grow.

He tracked their paths (both together and apart) and followed when he felt he might, but for the most part he kept to his pattern, crisscrossing Albion as it changed and reformed itself across the centuries, taking satisfaction in its victories, mourning its losses and for nearly fifteen hundred years it almost sufficed as an existence.

He went years sometimes without sleep, an uncomfortable and impractical approach to eternity that left him almost entirely incapable of concealing his magic or dealing with the mortal population in general. But sometimes when he closed his eyes it was all he could see, all he could see –

_Arthur’s stupidbrightbeautiful face as he thanked him, gratitude in his heart and eyes even as Merlin failed to save him and then he was gone, gone so long and Merlin had been waitingwaitingwaitingwaiting and what IF? What if he... didn’t? Never? Couldn’t?_

_-_ so sometimes he just _didn’t_ sleep, couldn’t in fact, not without some sort of natural disaster occurring when he was too deeply enmeshed in his dreams to control his grief or power. He took a few decades or so out of the latter part of the 20th century to do just that, verging on catastrophically numb with horror after watching the world turn against itself not once but twice.

He’d waded directly into the fray both times because he’d sat by wars before and thought them _close_ to what might reawaken his fate without anything ever even _flickering_ deep within him in recognition, but he’d gone willingly into that new century of surprising hate and intolerance - openly shrieking his pain to the sky as his friends died all about him - and still, _STILL_ Arthur did not stir.

He’d watched first as Lancelot and Percival set themselves up to run, headlong and noble, into a pointless death with thousands alongside them. Gwen, Morgana, Gaius, Leon and Gwaine were all killed just over two decades later by fire and crushing brick and white hot metal next and Merlin couldn’t, just _couldn’t_ stay and watch any longer.

His friends were all dead (again) and his magic could do nothing for this world full of destruction and technology, all tied together for a war he was not meant to win for all mankind – and so he ran.

He ran and he hid and he _wept_ for humanity and all its failures, sealing himself deep enough beneath a mountain that the Gods themselves would be unlikely to find him.

At first he hadn’t allowed himself to sleep, waiting for the rage and grief to simmer down to something less like a scream bubbling at the back of his throat with every other heartbeat and then, when the storm had passed and a voice not unlike Arthur’s had reminded him of what he was and why he waits, he slept.

He awoke in the early 21st century to a world of yet more technology, yet more war and yet somehow it appeared to be a world that many had accepted as a matter of course. It’s easy then, Merlin finds, to slip automatically into his white hair and bowed back role, already weary with this new world even before he had set a foot outside.

He walked the world for a decade or so, re-familiarising himself with the dips and planes of the earth spinning beneath him, the hum of it beneath his heels a comfort even as he mourned the current state of man, from discord to disease, water shortage to wars, and soon enough he found he knew this new and somewhat frightening world as well as he had known each incarnation before it.

He finds the others, an oddly bright constellation of beloved souls in the wide spread of people across what is known now as the United Kingdom, tracking them ( _all_ of them, for that matter) to London, where he can feel Gaius sat reading newspapers with a cup of tea and nodding in time with the speaker on the radio. Where Gwen and Lancelot make signs and lovingly collect names – supporters – for the cause that binds them together now. Where Gwaine and Percival laugh together even as they pause to listen and grow inspired, where once they drifted. Where Mordred, Morgana and ( _god_ , _that's a first_ )even Uther work together clustered near some sort of electrical device, pages clutched tightly between joined fingers, their eyes alight with satisfaction, triumph and pride as their souls twist and twine together in a disturbingly final sort of hope and _then_ -

Merlin stops, mid-step at the edge of a road, the rush of all their hope and pride flooding through him until his senses are stretched wide and he’s _SEETHING_ with it - with the overwhelming blast of a destiny long left to gather dust, burning away at the cobwebs sat over his heart.

He’s _furious_ then because _he hadn’t known_ and that realisation is somehow akin to the feeling he had when his magic had been all but devoured by Morgana’s hideous pet - like something that was intrinsically _his_ has been ripped from his skin - and it’s all he can do to bite back his power, his fury eating directly through his elderly veneer 'til he stands there, young, vital and STRONG again.

He completes his step then, no longer into the road but neatly stepping between the laws of physics into seeming nothingness, reappearing before a rally of some sort.

He steps down from his uplift of power onto pavement, his shoes making little noise as he circles round the cheering, chanting crowds, signs and banners waving high, some sort of call to arms, for change, for action emblazoned across every man, woman and child present, men with cameras everywhere and all pointed in the same direction.

Merlin looks but does not allow himself to stare, to rush forward and burn the entirety of the city with the force of his joy. Instead he takes note of the feeling that is Arthur’s soul, oddly subtle, pressing against his own, freshly reborn and gleaming with purpose and for a moment he lets the tears form in his eyes, swaying in place as his gaze rests heavily on Arthur – real, actual _Arthur_ , warm and alive, _so_ alive, even from a distance Merlin can see that – before turning to move inside. Forcing his head and his power to overrule his pounding heart, he walks steadily to a tallish old building nearby, innocuous enough but for the plaques stating the occupants name, his rank, his pedigree to all and sundry strolling by.

He walks directly indoors, bypassing the security officers, the cameras and the seeming legion of staff all there and working willingly to achieve Arthur’s goal. He’s momentarily staggered by a dizzying sense of nostalgia when his magic finds Mordred, Morgana and Uther several floors above, finally united by a joint sense of pride and loyalty and so, shaken, he lets himself in to wait in Arthur’s office.

Office assistants fly back and forth, letting themselves in and out of Arthur’s room with steadily mounting joy as Merlin waits, invisible to all but those he wishes to see him, occupying himself with Arthur’s books, enjoying his former King’s apparently continued need to do what’s right and _succeed_ at it, when finally he hears the door click to and lock from the inside.

“You know, it’s illegal to trespass – these offices aren’t open to the public for a reason.”

Merlin hums noncommittally, his back to Arthur, his eyes shut as he fights back tears at the delightfully upright but rich, _righteous_ timbre of Arthur’s voice.

“There’s an entire security detail waiting right outside, I could have you arrested in seconds.”

Merlin swallows, slow, _painful_ , his throat dry as the hope burning up from within him consumes all but his admittedly shaky voice.

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t care?” The voice is closer now, almost too dry and Merlin takes a moment to wonder if fate will actually allow him to die now, if Arthur doesn’t remember him.

“Nope.” He croaks and a soft scoff sounds directly behind him.

“So, you’re still an idiot then?” Arthur says, casually, comically cruel and Merlin feels the weight of a century and a half drop from his shoulders as he turns.

He wants to say ‘Yep’, he wants to laugh, to cry and fling his arms around Arthur and never let him go but instead Merlin smiles, tears pouring down his cheeks and Arthur lifts a hand to wrap it warm and wide at the base of Merlin’s skull.

There’s a moment then where Merlin can do barely more than blink and gaze back at where Arthur’s eyes are tear-bright and fixed upon Merlin’s own, nodding once then, a quick affirmative jerk that has Merlin’s eyes spilling over again, laughing, and then Arthur’s smile is bright and crooked and utterly, _utterly_ worth the wait.

Fin.


End file.
